Saturday Morning Breakfast
by The Schwa and The Umlaut
Summary: Breakfast at the local diner was a tradition, and it was almost always the same. But when a tall man wearing plaid sat down next to my spot I came into possession of an old family heirloom. Short one-shot that popped into my mind. I might do more with the characters if anyone wants me to.


"Thanks Deb," I said as I waved to the red headed waitress at my town's local diner. It was the only place in my god forsaken town where you could order food. Be that as it may they had the best goddamn omelets I'd ever tasted, so every Saturday I'd find myself there at 8:30 AM sliding into the last stool by the counter.

As far as customers went, it was usually just me, old John Holden nursing a hangover with some toast and coffee, and the town's sheriff stuffing a powdered doughnut into his mouth. It was about as stereotypical of a small town diner as you could get.

Today however there was someone new. I'd seen other people in the diner before, the occasional family treating their kids to a special breakfast, or some nauseating couple dropping in after spending a night in our town's two room motel across the street. But there was a man sitting next to my spot that I'd never seen before.

He had long brown hair that barely touched his shoulders with sideburns framing his face. His plaid shirt was worn and had a few tears here and there as well as some poorly stitched lines that must've been an attempt at repair.

I considered sitting at the other end of the diner, but I was a creature of habit and slid into my spot. I only glanced at the man next to me and he barely lifted his head when I sat down. Neither of us said a word to the other and acted as if the other was invisible. Which was fine with me considering I was kind of pissed that he was intruding my space.

It was only after I'd waved to Deb and stood up to leave that he spoke to me, "Excuse me miss, but I have something important to ask you."

I turn to him and waited for the question about the quickest route from here to some-place-that-isn't-here that never came.

"Do you believe in demons?"

"Excuse-what?" I stuttered.

"I noticed your tattoo," he said indicating the pentagram inked onto my wrist.

"Oh…um, I guess why?" I replied. My family had always been pretty superstitious, and for the most part I agreed with them. There is some fucked up shit in this world and the depravity of humans can only go so far before something a bit more supernatural picks up the slack. The tattoo, however, had nothing to do with this and was obtained during my regrettable goth period.

"Just curious."

"And had to ask just as I was about to leave?" I asked, smirking.

"Well, actually," he stumbled over his words before he stated outright: "This is going to sound really weird, but I promise you that I'm not crazy."

"Okay" Slowly, I slid back onto my stool.

"Do you know any of the town's history?"

"Yeah, it was founded by Samuel Colt while cowboys still ruled the wild, wild west," I repeated the story my grandfather had told me so much when I was a kid. "He was actually my great-great-well lots-of-greats grandfather."

"Really? Do you know what they used to say about him?"

"Oh," I laughed coming to a realization about the new guy. "You're one of those Ghostbusters aren't you?"

"What? No I'm just interested in the town's history," he lied.

"Okay in that case Colt founded it in 1873 and we got a stoplight in 1982," I quipped.

"Fine, yeah I'm one of those Ghostbusters," he admitted. "What do you know about him?"

"Well according to legend he killed demons and other monsters," I recalled.

"He also created a gun that could kill anything," he explained.

"And let me guess you want me to tell you where the magic gun is," I interrupted. I started to get up to leave, but the man stopped me.

"Actually, I already have it," he said. He opened his jacket and pulled out an rustic revolver with curving designs etched into the metal and pentagram carved into it at the bottom.

"Holy shit," I whispered and sat back down.

"It's the real deal too," he added. "New bullets as well."

"You're a bit more than the average Ghostbuster aren't you?" I muttered.

"Yeah, you could say that," he laughed.

"Why are you showing me this?"

"I need to hide the gun with someone who'll protect it," he told me.

"Wait. Was your plan just come to this dump of a town and hope that someone related to him still lived here?" I gaped.

"No, I actually searched through Colt's family tree," he admitted sheepishly.

"So you're a stalker, Ghostbuster, who wants to give me a magic gun?" I clarified.

"Pretty much," he sighed.

"You're lucky I'm just as crazy as you are," I said and held out my hand.

"Thank you," he replied and handed me my ancestor's gun. I tucked it into my pants and turned to leave.

"If you ever need it back just call me," I added and jotted down my number on a diner napkin.

The cold metal of the gun pressed into my thigh as I walked back to my shack of a house. The whole way back I had that feeling that you get after watching an action movie in theatres, completely hardcore and badass.

I didn't become careless, though. I checked the salt lines and devil's traps and waited for the rest my family to come back from their hunt. After all, hunting didn't begin and end with my lots-of-greats grandfather, it was passed on through the generations.


End file.
